embroidery
sitting cross-legged on the veranda couch, I try to mirror the patience of your voice when threading the needle for the fifth time, wanting to sew your speech into linen and have it rest in my dress pocket. naively, I swaddle myself in the temporary, slipped like a bookmark betwee
Stockholm Syndrome
we captured the city / persuaded the morning to wait / not to dawn / or betray us / or tread on our shadows just yet now we are alone / but entrapped is a bat in the net of your wings / these have managed somehow to regenerate we captured the towers / […]
Mother Tongue
flight after flight after flightmy tongue becomes adjustedto the different cultures: taste,language, kisses; but it mistrusts me the third time I leave home. “What is your mother tongue?”mine earnestly protests. pulled in one, two, three directions, it seems to cry: I have none.an orphaned tongu
